


Between my wounds and the biting cold, your words hurt the most

by Bibanana



Series: The scenes we don't see [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But I thought it sounded poetic, But thanks to Marvelous_Stark, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, I can't do titles, It WAS supposed to be a one shot, It's not actually that graphic, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, The warning is for good measure, it's now two chapters, long title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibanana/pseuds/Bibanana
Summary: Sherlock calls John while he is "dead", after being through physical extremities.He couldn’t die just yet. He had to live, just until Moriarty’s network was demolished. Just until London was safe. Just until John was safe.No, no. Not John. John doesn’t matter. John is just another civilian. If he let John matter, he wouldn’t be able to function.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The scenes we don't see [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678477
Comments: 20
Kudos: 61





	1. The phone call

**Author's Note:**

> I sat in front of my laptop screen, trying to think of a title. It's the longest title in the world and definitely not "catchy" or easy to remember, but it's something.  
> Anyways.  
> I was feeling angsty so I decided to write a short, post-reichenbach one shot.
> 
> Update: It is no longer a one shot. ;)

Sherlock rolled onto his side, gasping, spitting, aching. He let his head fall into the sand, the saltwater stinging his eyes. He had just consumed far too much seawater and he should vomit it, he really should. He could feel the water sloshing inside of him, building in his throat, and it had to come out. It had to be thrown up or else he might die. But he couldn’t vomit. His whole body was screaming, and there was so much blood. So, so, much blood. With every ragged breath he took, his body convulsed and his ribs howled and his chest tore itself apart. The effort required to throw up would kill him and though dying didn’t seem like such a bad option in the moment, his work wasn’t done. He couldn’t die just yet. He had to live, just until Moriarty’s network was demolished. Just until London was safe. Just until John was safe.

No, no. Not John. John doesn’t matter. John is just another civilian. If he let John matter, he wouldn’t be able to function.

He needed an ambulance.

There was a burner phone in his pocket, wrapped in plastic, hopefully not too damaged. He could use it to call 999.

Or Mycroft.

Yes, Mycroft was probably a better option. Faster recovery, less questions.

He grit his teeth and moved his arm to pick up the phone.

_Come on. Eleven easy digits. It’s not hard._

But apparently his fingers had a different agenda. Sherlock found himself dialing John’s number, the number, of which however useless it might be, he would never delete from his mind.

Dialing.

“Hello, John Watson, speaking. Who is this?”

John’s voice washed over him, crackling over the microphone, temporarily numbing his pain.

“Hello? Is there anyone there?”

He sounded weary, tired. Sherlock opened his mouth but no words came out. He tried to speak, desperately. _John! It’s me! I’m alive!_

“Okay, I’m going to hang up now.”

Sherlock tried to speak, urgently, desperately. _Don’t hang up! It’s me! It’s_ me _, John!_ It was no use. Nothing. Nothing escaped his dry lips. A violent pain tore through his throat as he managed to rasp, “Wait.”

“Who is this?”

 _Who is this. This is Sherlock. Your friend. Your dead friend._ “It’s me.”

“Sorry, I don’t know who ‘me’ is.” A beat. “If this is some sort of prank…” He said warily.

Sherlock coughed and, _bloody hell and all of it’s demons,_ it hurt. “Not a prank. It’s me. It’s Sherlock.”

He heard John inhale sharply. “No. It’s not. Sherlock Holmes is dead.” His voice shook. It shook with anger and something else that Sherlock couldn’t place. Was he… Was John crying? “Sherlock Holmes is dead.” He repeated. “This isn’t funny. It was never funny. I’m hanging up now.”

“No! John! It’s not a prank! It’s me!” Sherlock spoke quickly, frantically, pressing the mobile into his cheek. A rock was cutting into his thigh and night was beginning to fall. If he stayed out here, wet and all around half-alive, he would freeze to death.

John spoke his next words menacingly, dripping with venom. It was a tone that Sherlock had never heard in John’s naturally playful voice. “Piss. _The fuck._ Off.”

The phone beeped and went silent, falling from Sherlock’s blistered hands into the wet sand.

A painful sob racked Sherlock’s body as his shaking fingers dialed Mycroft’s number.

 _John, I’m sorry._ He thought miserably. _I’m sorry. I wish I never left. I wish there was another way. I love you._


	2. The room of white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on writing this so soon, but I had a lot of emotions and my favourite way of venting is pushing my emotions onto Sherlock and John (sorry, boys).  
> Anyways, thank you so much to Marvelous_Stark for all of your nice comment. You made my day, and are the only reason this chapter exists. <333

“Rise and shine, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice wafted into Sherlock’s consciousness, yanking him into reality.

Sherlock let out an uncomfortable grunt, becoming acutely aware of the tubes scratching at his throat. He peeled his eyelids open (they were quite sticky, having been closed for a while). Bright light hit him, burning his eyes and causing him to squeeze them shut again. White. The room he was in, it had been all white.

He tried, once again, to open his eyes. This time, he found that the light didn’t hurt quite so badly, as long as he kept them squinted, half shut. Sherlock could just make out the blurry outline of Mycroft And Umbrella (his umbrella accompanied him everywhere; it seemed to be an extension of himself) seated on a stool at the foot of the bed. Bed. A white hospital bed. A white bed in a white room.

“You are in my private hospital in Novi Pazar.” Mycroft began, answering Sherlock’s unspoken questions. “Upon your recovery, you will be helicoptered to Kraljevo where you will continue your mission. You gave us quite a scare, dear brother. Please do try to remember that the doctor is waiting for you, back in London, and I would very much like to return you to him alive.”

Sherlock let out something of a sigh as Mycroft stood up and rested his hand, the one not clutching his umbrella, on the door. “I do hope you have brushed up on your Serbian.” With that, he turned on his heel and strided out of the room, his polished shoes making a clicking noise as they hit the shiny white tiles.

A year trickled out of Sherlock’s eye. Just one, a singular drop of water, mucin, lipids, lysozyme, lactoferrin, lipocalin, lacritin, immunoglobulins, glucose, urea, sodium, and potassium. It could have been caused by many things, be it the dull ache consuming his body or the morphine muddling his brain, or the fact that he hadn’t eaten in god knows how long. But all of those were minor inconveniences, mere discomforts. There was a pain, deep in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. It would swell up with every beat of his heart and catch on to his breath. It was an agony that he had become all too familiar with, and had visited him frequently in the years he had been apart from John.

Sherlock thought of John, snarling at him over the phone. What will happen, Sherlock wondered,  if when he came back? John would be overjoyed to see him, wouldn’t he? John would be relieved. They could go back to chasing down criminals in the darkest of alleyways and bickering over which brand of coffee to buy.  _ That’s _ why Sherlock kept going.  _ That’s _ why, even in times of his greatest pain and no hope lingered in his mind, when the days and nights blended into each other, fueled only by the determination he managed to keep (along with the forbidden white powder) (Sherlock would never tell John he was using again. John would be so disappointed and Sherlock would be so ashamed), he persevered on, continuing to take James Moriarty down, piece by piece. Because, at the end, when it was all over, Sherlock knew that John would be waiting for him, sitting in his armchair in flat 221B, ready to press resume on the life that had paused while Sherlock was away.

For John, it was all  _ worth it _ .

Sherlock, comforted by this thought, dozed off into a light, dreamless, morphine fueled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you Marvelous_Stark, and thank you anyone else who read this. :)

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
